


Wildest Moments

by AlwaysGin



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Villaneve
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-14 05:15:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17502281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysGin/pseuds/AlwaysGin
Summary: So I had an idea for this story, albeit a small one and I haven't really planned it out apart from the first 2 chapters which I've already written, so it could really go anywhere if I'm honest. It's set sometime after season 1 but almost none of it is canon. Some sort of plot and angst and sex and violence and some fluff. Try and stay with me. :')





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title is after a Jessie Ware song because the lyrics of it fit these 2 so perfectly. If you haven't heard it already go listen to it and try telling me otherwise, go!

"So, tell me, why am I here?" The accent is thick and the tone deep, almost masculine. Flat.

The woman is nearing the final stages of her life and the years haven't been kind to her. Yet she isn't the kind of old woman you would pity, the ones with their old bones and feeble limbs, but the kind who could run a military kitchen if given half the chance and run it with such discipline even the hardest of soldiers would always remember their, otherwise forgotten, manners. Her hair is snowy white and wispy over her scalp, harshly tied back into a tight bun that causes her skin to stretch, skin which reminds Eve of a wax dummy, crudely carved with tools too sharp and heavily lined like a walnut. Age spots sprinkle her face like old forgotten coffee stains and her lips are naturally pursed. Her clothes are dark in colour and layered enough to cope with the harshness of Russian winter, Eve notices they are moth-eaten at the arms.

"We have some questions about your daughter... Oksana."

"She's dead." The words leave her mouth quickly, too abrupt for the meaning they carry and her aging face reveals nothing with them, the same hardened expression hasn't changed since she arrived. The officer sat opposite, who should know better than to allow judgment to creep in during questioning, can't help but wonder how a mother could be so indifferent to such a statement, regardless of how long it had been.

"So again, why am I here?" Her pale eyes widen slightly and the balding brows above them lift, finally replacing her usual look of boredom with one of pure impatience.

"I know this may come as a shock," Eve, also sat opposite the woman and to the right of the officer, cushions her lips around her words to try to somehow soften them before they hit this woman square in the face. Eve leans forward, resting her arms across the table, clasps her hands together in front of her. She's searching the woman's face for some sort of resemblance, anything to tie this woman to Villanelle but there is nothing, nothing except the same perfect dip of her cupid's bow, Eve knows only she would notice something so small. She clears her throat. "But, um... Oksana is very much alive."

Silence. The woman's expression doesn't flinch, except her eyes change focus from looking over Eve's shoulder, past her, to now directly into her eyes. There, Eve notices another resemblance, she's looked into a stare like this before. How can something so similar make her feel so different? This stare makes her feel as if the blood has turned to ice in her veins, nothing like the response it's parallel produces.

"Impossible." The woman's body shifts, she splays her long thin fingers across the table - Eve notices an orangey yellow stain between her index and middle finger on her right hand, a smoker - and pushes herself up. "Am I free to go now?"

"Please, if you could just answer a couple of questions." Eve rises with her, raising her hand as if it is a white flag, waving pathetically in a battle which has long been lost.

"No. You have been misled, through your own stupidity it seems, and I will not contribute to it. I buried Oksana a long time ago. Am I free to go or do you have a legal right to hold me here?"

She switches her stare to the officer, who is still sat down, a look of bewilderment splashed across his face. She jerks her head slightly at him, a wordless prompt for him to answer her question.

"You are free to go. If you want to."

Her eyes flick back to Eve, a narrow glare that immediately makes Eve feel cracked open, exposed. "Don't ever contact me again."

Eve doesn't move until long after she hears the click of the door as it had closed behind Oksana's mother. She feels a deep coldness in the pit of her stomach and is struggling to understand what is causing it, is it the loss of what she expected this encounter to be? She remembers the swell of excitement that had crept over her body when Carolyn had arranged it, had insisted Eve was the one to do it. This, after all, could tie a few more of the never-ending loose ends of Villanelle's past. But no, it isn't that. It's the lack of response from her, how she didn't seem to care to hear any more than one of the most confounding statements a mother could hear. _Heartless_.

"Um, Eve? It's lunch, are you okay if I shoot out?"

Eve blinks once, quickly remembering she isn't alone.

"Yes, uh, yes of course. I'm fine, you go."

"Great. I'll file this-"

"No, it's okay, I'll do it. It will probably be the quickest report I've ever had to file." She smiles weakly at him. _Just leave, I need to feel this way alone_. Sure enough, he shuffles out of the room without another word.

Eve pulls out a chair and collapses into it. _Why do you care so much, Eve?_ Why does it pain her to realise this woman doesn't care about Oksana? This woman doesn't even know Villanelle, doesn't know who her daughter has become and how many lives she has taken, how many lives she has destroyed by taking them. Eve feels her own reaction to hers isn't normal, it feels almost personal. _Isn't a mother's love supposed to be unconditional?_   Then it dawns on her, it isn't sadness she feels but it's loneliness. Loneliness in her love for Villanelle. She realises now that it had been her hope from the beginning of this arrangement, to finally have someone who she shared it with. But now there is no one, no one except Eve, who cares whether Villanelle is alive or dead. Eve had decided to tether her happiness to a woman who looks death in the face every day, who hunts for it herself if it doesn't find her on its own, all nonchalance with a cat-like smile and a full clip at her waist. _God, I'm so fucked._

Suddenly her pocket springs to life and she jumps almost an inch out of her chair. She shoves a trembling hand into it and pulls out her mobile phone.

NO CALLER ID

Eve knows it's her but she isn't ready for this conversation so soon, hasn't had near enough time to plan what to say or to even begin to explain. She breathes in deeply, releases a shaky breath and accepts the call.

"Hello, Eve. How was mother?"


	2. Chapter 2

The store is quiet, it must be around 1pm she thinks - the morning rush long over and the scurrying figures causing it now sat behind their desks whether it be at school or work, already halfway through their day - and the paunchy shopkeeper has moved from his usual spot behind the counter to the back of the store, using the peaceful downtime to sweep under the shelves and replenish stock. Distracted. Perfect. She's stood on the opposite side of the street, she's not yet visited this part of town so must scope it out first, make sure she has everything covered.

"Hello. Are you okay, dear?"

An older lady has approached, out of nowhere it seems -  _I must become more aware_  - and her eyes show the kind of gentle concern she's grown used to receiving from strangers. Oksana glares at her for a moment, feeling dragged away from her current objective and slightly annoyed by the fact.

"Yes, um, fine. I am just waiting for my mother, she's meeting me here any moment now."

"I see. So, no school today?" Ah, of course, school. That's where 13-year-olds are supposed to be.

"Not today."

The old woman doesn't move on and Oksana wonders why since the conversation is over. She looks down at her shoes to avoid the woman's eyes which are now searching for her own. She wiggles her left big toe which is visible through the gaping hole in her plimsolls.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yes. How about you mind your own business and leave me alone, huh?" She looks up now, directly into the woman's probing stare, with lips twisted and brows pulled together, a scowl she's perfected over time. "I said I am fine."

She watches as the woman hurries off, glancing back every so often with a look of dismay across her face. Oksana is relieved to see her disappear up the street and turn a corner, out of sight.

She doesn't understand people and why there seems to be only two types of them. The ones who look at her with short side glances whilst crossing to the other side of the street to avoid her, a look of pity crossing their faces as they refuse eye contact. The others who approach her, awash with concern and the need for the type of self-fulfillment they hope will come from helping her. She prefers the former type.

She knows her clothes are a good few sizes too big, have been worn for too many consecutive days and have not been washed nearly enough. She knows her skin is sallow and filthy and spread too thinly over her bones. She knows her hair is matted and unruly and nothing like the women in the magazines. She vows that one day she will turn this around. She will dine in only the finest restaurants and eat seared lobster in butter sauce until she's sick, she will wear clothes that have been walked on the runways of Paris, wear shoes with red bottoms and have her hair styled in posh salons with marble floors and champagne waiting for the clients on silver trays. But, until then, she will use her current state to her advantage.

She crosses the street, pulls her hood down and wipes her nose on the back of her sleeve. Taking a deep breath, she pushes the door open and slips inside. She didn't anticipate the small bell sat above the doorframe and it chimes gently to alert the shopkeeper of her arrival. Oh well, she at least prepared for if he noticed her. He pops his head over one of the shelves and struggles to his feet, wiping his thick fingers down the front of his overalls.

"Hello! I'm sorry, I was just using the quiet time to get this place in order." He smiles wholeheartedly at her, his chubby cheeks lifting with it, causing his eyes to almost close as he skips behind the counter, ready to serve her.

She's stung by the sweet and savoury aromas wafting in the air and her eyes quickly fall to the rows of pastries and cakes lining the counter, her stomach clenches at the slight of the glistening sticky buns and crumbling pies bursting with stodgy fillings.

"What can I do for you, little lady?" Then, _of course_ , the usual sympathetic expression creeps across his face as he takes in her dismal appearance. She pulls on her tragic lost child act, drops her mouth, widens her eyes and softens her voice to barely a whisper.

"Hello, mister. I, um, I was just wondering if you ever kept any food that's gone bad or, you know, out of date or whatever in the back until the garbage men get here? I'm sorry to ask but I'm just so hungry and, I mean, I know you shouldn't ever sell it on but I, um, I wouldn't ever tell anyone if you would perhaps let me take some? I promise you I wouldn't tell."

She lowers her head and drops her shoulders, the sorrowful sigh that escapes the poor man almost makes her smile. _Sucker_. But he doesn't say anything and a long moment passes and she begins to worry that maybe she misread him, maybe not all overweight people are joyful and kind and now he's just readying himself to chase her out of the store. Maybe with his broom, she thinks, as if she were a rat guilty of chewing holes through his tinned beans or pooping on his freshly mopped floor or-

"I may have a little something in the back you could take, it's not much as we haven't had a lot left over lately, but it will maybe fill your belly for a day or so?"

 _Oh, thank fuck_.

"Oh, mister, that's so awfully kind of you, I will be forever in your debt." She lifts her head as she speaks, flashing a wide angelic smile and exhales deeply as if the world has lifted from her feeble shoulders. He almost mirrors her reaction and raises a finger, a prompt for her to wait a moment, before turning on his heels and disappearing into the back.

"Do you like pastries and, uh, wholemeal bread?" He shouts from the back.

"Oh yes, I will eat anything." She shouts back.

She hears him shuffling around, hears the sound of boxes and bags moving around as he sifts through whatever crap he's got back there. _This is too easy_. She fishes into the pocket of her saggy blue slacks and pulls out a crumpled plastic bag, shakes it open quietly and arches her arm as far back on the counter as she can reach and pulls back, scooping countless pastries and cakes into the bag and repeating the motion until the bag is fit to burst. She sighs at the amount that miss and hit the linoleum floor, she'll think of them later when the ones she caught have all gone.

"How about some sugar doughnuts? They may be a bit hard now but still fit to eat for the next day or so?"

She hears the words faintly as the door swings shut behind her. She runs and runs, doesn't stop until she reaches the old crumbling three-story apartment block she calls home, whatever home means. She takes a minute to catch her breath, leans against the rusted iron railing which frames the property and her brain quickly wonders what she'll be greeted with inside this time. The old concrete paneled khrushchyovka is more of a glorified shed with walls which look almost brittle, as if one more harsh winter would surely shatter them to dust, the roof sags with slate tiles that jut out and remind Oksana of wonky teeth, the whole of it is grey in colour and Oksana wonders, whenever she looks at it, if this is how totally colour blind people see.

She pushes through the door and into the shared hallway, several dusty bikes block most of the cramped space and she has to carefully manoeuvre past them before she reaches her front door. It was once painted a deep red, she remembers it vividly, but has long since faded to a dull dusty pink with flaking paint which leaves constant speckles on the floor outside it.

She knocks once and waits. After a couple of minutes, the door cracks open a couple of inches and she's met with the familiar smell of stale cigarettes and coffee with a hint of cheap vodka, the kind that would do good work on the front door before it's ready for a fresh coat. Her mother doesn't welcome her or pull the door open any wider, just simply turns her back and walks away. Oksana quickly follows in behind her, through the dimly lit hallway - which always feels as if the walls are closing in on her - and into the living room. Her mother is already sat back down on her usual brown material armchair, deep stains cover almost the entirety of it and old charred cigarette burns pepper the arms.

"Mama, I have something for us."

She swings the plastic bag - overflowing with pastries and sweet cakes - from behind her back and raises it up to within her mother's line of sight, a broad smile splashed across her face. Her mother glances at it, takes a long drag from her cigarette - which is already hitting the filter - before dropping it to the floor and stubbing it out on the grey carpet.

"Put that on the table."

"Sure." Oksana does as she is told and places the bag down on the sticky coffee table. "I got as many as I could, he wouldn't have realised anything until I was already halfway back here so I am fine. No one will come for me. There are cakes and pies and other pastries, you will like them all or at least most of them. Tell me which you would like first and I will-"

"Please Oksana, quiet. Leave those things on the table and go, make yourself useful somewhere other than here. I have a headache and your voice is making it worse." She pinches her nose and releases an exasperated breath.

"Um, okay, sure. Where shall I go?"

"Anywhere you like."

"Okay, I will go. Could I at least take one of those-"

"Ah, you think you deserve this luxury? I sent you out for those, you wouldn't have them if it was not for me. Now you are free to find your own, whichever way you choose to. Leave them, all of them, here."

Oksana knows not to argue, no matter how much she wants to. Every fibre of her being wants to lash out, wants to smash her mother's head against the coffee table and keep raining blows until her face splits and the blood bubbles up from her throat and spills out from her callous mouth. She won't stop until the coffee table breaks and blood mixes with the sweetness inside that fucking bag.

But instead, she does as she is told. She leaves. Hunger and anger her only rewards.


	3. Chapter 3

She hangs her coat, flicks on the thermostat - trusting it will kick in soon so she can feel her fingers again - and trudges to the kitchen where she plonks her bag and phone on the countertop. Her eyes feel dry in her sockets as the exhaustion fully sets in. She pours a large red and takes a healthy gulp, appreciates the thick bitter liquid as it travels down her throat and sits warmly in her chest. The flight home had only given her time to think more, worry more, panic more. And even now, in the solace of home, her mind again drifts back to all things Villanelle.

"I understand, Eve. You have to know everything, you have to master every riddle. That exhausting brain of yours won't rest until you do. I just hope you aren't expecting the 3 of us to soon share small talk over home-cooked solyanka." Eve wondered if she could ever be serious about anything... other than her work, of course, yet even that has a farcical flare more often than not.

"Of course I don't expect that. I just, I just wasn't prepared for-"

"The old hag to have zero emotion? You think the woman who birthed a creation such as me would be, uh... fluffy?"

"Doesn't it bother you?" Eve should know by now to stop picking at this scab, she never gets the answers she wants no matter how many times she scratches at the edges of it. Frustration almost always follows.

"Nope. Do you think if I wanted to stop it I couldn't have? Your organisation really needs to improve its firewalls, I knew about the arrangement before you did," she scoffed before she continued, "You see, my mother holds none of my secrets. She doesn't know me, she never did. What could she possibly tell you, Eve? I allowed it to happen, I know _you_ needed it to." That last words were said with a smile, Eve heard it curled around the words from her end of the line. _Control freak._

"That wasn't really what I meant by the question-"

"What are you wearing, Eve?"

"Oh Christ, why do you always do that?"

"Do what? Speak what's on my mind?"

"No, try to deflect," she sighed heavily, "God, you know what I mean."

"No, I don't. You live inside your brain and rarely tell me what is in it, but would also like to know exactly how mine works. You make it difficult for yourself really, for whatever _Eve_ reason, but it's quite simple. I tell you all the time exactly what's going on in here." Eve visualised Villanelle tapping two fingers against her temple.

A long moment passed, Eve didn't feel in the mood to play and didn't attempt to fill the gaping silence with meaningless words that time. She was exhausted and disappointed and was still struggling with her feelings and why she was feeling them.

"Boring. Suit yourself. Just know I am not mad at you. See you soon, Eve." Click.

Eve takes another gulp of wine and then another, replaying the conversation she'd had with Villanelle - not half an hour since the traumatic one she'd had with her mother - made her long for the mental blocks enough wine can usually deliver. Had she, of all people, really called her and psychoanalysed her? She breathes a laugh of disbelief. _Yes, she had. And all of it was true._

Her phone draws her thoughts back to earth and she blinks once at it, watches it vibrate across the counter for a moment before checking the name glaring across the screen.

CAROLYN MARTENS

 _Oh, God._ She hasn't the brain power to deal with Carolyn right now, hasn't had it since she boarded the flight from Moscow if she was really honest with herself. If she doesn't deal with her now, though, she'll soon hear the doorbell and she's positive she will not be able to match her facial expression with the lies of her mouth tonight.

"Hello, Eve." Carolyn speaks first, the same low tone of her voice stern on the other end of the line. Smoothy professional, as always, which, as always, makes Eve feel somewhat inadequate.

"Hi Carolyn."

"The meeting was totally disastrous, as you know, as I know, but we may have something to alleviate the disappointment."

Eve swallows, she's rattled by the beginning of the sentence that she barely hears the ending of it. Yes, she's fully aware it was a total disaster but put anyone in a room with that woman and see how much further they get. She was totally impenetrable and she couldn't have exactly man-handled her to stay in the room or waterboard her until she gave up information. Her mind flickers back to that night, on her back in her own bathtub with a heavy weight on top of her, water filling her nostrils, terror and misplaced excitement crawling her bones. _Not now brain._

"Are you there?"

"Ah yes, um, sorry. Yes, I'm here. What is it we have?"

"Two people of interest were discovered from the small feelers I put out, the mother and another. I went with the big fish, of course, but we now know how that went," _Yes, Carolyn, fully aware._ "So our hands have been forced to take a look at the other and, well, it may just be a blessing in disguise. It's proven quite interesting in fact."

Eve's heart misses a beat and her temperature shoots up a few degrees, _go on_.

"Who is it?"

"It's a close contact of the family, well, of the mother at least. The connection seems to travel back sometime, even before Villanelle."

Eve loses the interest as quickly as it had arrived, how can anything be this important if it precedes Villanelle?

"Eve?"

"Um, sorry, I just got home and my mind hasn't caught up yet-"

"We shall meet tomorrow to discuss further, you're tired and I prefer speaking in person. Notes Cafe, St. Martin's Lane. 9am." Click.

She sighs. _9am, really?_ She'd already planned to sleep in until _at least_  10 and stay in bed until way past 11. She downs the last of her wine and contemplates another glass until the looming early start she's had thrust upon her forces a more responsible decision, she puts the glass in the sink and makes a mental note to rinse it through in the morning.

She's halfway up the stairs when the doorbell rings. Her heart drops low in her chest.  _Surely not, no, she doesn't even know what a doorbell is. Breaking and entering more her style._

"Alright, Eve, love. This came for you, must have been out and about so they dropped it at mine. I saw your light on so thought I'd pass it in before I start my night shift." Joseph Harris, her ridiculously stereotypical cockney neighbour - who drives a black cab and has never been seen in public without a flat cap atop his balding head - presents an A4 brown package. She instantly knows it's from her and a warm sensation pools in her stomach. She takes it, more eager than she intended to, and smiles at him, "Thanks, Joe."

"No worries, darlin'. I gotta rush off, you look after yourself, yeah?"

She examines the package as soon as the door is closed. There are no time or postal stamps, just her first and surname looped neatly in cursive on one side. It's thick and quite heavy, bends slightly in her hands as she pressures it. _A book_. She peels back the paper quickly but cautiously and allows the discarded strips to sprinkle her hallway.

KAKURO FOR DUMMIES

And a note slips from inside one of the pages, landing in the middle of the brown paper field at her feet. It stands out against the rest, white and crisp and how can even the fucking paper she writes on look expensive? She scoops it up and feels the smile crinkle her eyes as she reads the words.

_A little something to occupy that brain of yours._

_I hear it's fun for people like you, similar to Sudoku apparently, which I know you like._

_Yours,_

_V_


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Super late update I'm sorry, work is a soul sucker!

She finds this type of kill boring, too easy and a waste of her talents. At least it's early hours so she'll be done in time for breakfast, she licks her bottom lip as she remembers a cafe just off Temple Bar she visited last time she was here - Queen of Tarts - which serves a delicious full Irish breakfast, she went in for the name but stayed for the buttery plate of sausages, bacon and potatoes. Plus washing it down with a spiced Irish liqueur at 7am didn't raise any eyebrows there.

It's just after 6am and Villanelle is stood outside an old run down building which looks like the set of a horror movie. She smirks when she realises she's playing the villain in this one, smirks even more because she might just be the most attractive villain the horror genre has ever seen - no mask, no impractical clunky butchers knife and no bulky overalls or disgusting stripey jumpers - just a slim fitting black jumpsuit and a cute Beretta Nano, which is black too of course, she always likes to match her accessories.

She feels the familiar throb of excitement swell in her chest and the adrenaline swim over her skin, feels the blood waking up in her veins and hears as it rushes past her ears and pumps to her brain. She swears even her senses heighten when it comes to a kill, swears she can see better, hear better and read and prepare for any scenario before it happens. But she must admit, the high wears off much quicker than it used to and the come-down from it feels much worse, she blames it mainly on her employers and how controlled she feels by them. At first she appreciated _being_ appreciated and felt she finally belonged, had finally found her one true calling in life which answered all her previous life's questions. _Ah, so this is why I'm like this, this is my path_. But now she just feels like another cog in the engine... a small part that, although is needed for the machine to work, could easily be replaced if it grew rusty. She feels they don't respect her much anymore and the freedom she once had is growing more and more restricted as time goes by. She isn't sure what exactly has changed, if it is them or in fact her, but she's never looked at the bigger picture until now and it's keeping her up at night. And sleep is important.

The target, an aging man who has continued to work way past retirement age, is on the night shift in there and she's growing increasingly aware that the morning shift starts at 6:30am so she needs to get a move on. The night shift only runs one line with 2 workers so she decides she'll watch their routine for approximately 5 or 6 minutes before deciding her plan. She perches behind a tall pallet not far from the end of the line, it's stacked with empty rancid meat trays and she silently scolds herself for leaning against it and getting slime up her arm. She spots him stood at the top end of the line, he waits as large cuts of meat roll across on a conveyor before he grabs each one as it passes, removes anything untoward before slamming it back down a couple of times to even it out, where it continues it's journey to the next man at the other end. The other man - younger than the target but still nothing to him which Villanelle would struggle with if it came to it - packs it up and sets it to one side. She waits and watches their routine, notes that after about 5 or so packed meats pile up, the second man stacks them on top of each other before carrying them to a large freezer a few feet away. The time he takes isn't enough for her to slip out of her hiding place, kill the target, and get far enough away before he gets back. Oh well, he'll have to die too and he'll go first. Collateral damage, it happens.

"Hey, Kaz! I need to take a piss, shut that off for a second, will you?" Or maybe not.

The target shuts off the machine and rests his frail figure against the side of it as the second man leaves through a door in the back. She slinks out from her hiding place, grabs a pack of the newly prepared meat from the end of the line - an improvised silencer - and paces towards the target with wide strides. He has his back to her but she wants to see him, see his eyes widen in terror as he realises what is about to happen to him, it's possibly the most satisfying perk of her job. She grabs him by the shoulder and spins him around to face her before slamming the pack to his chest and shoves the gun behind it, resting it directly to his heart. The force pulls a harsh gasp from deep within him but it immediately dies in his mouth as his eyes settle on her and then he doesn't make a sound. His body isn't tense and is now just as relaxed as his face, his eyes soften as they roam her face and she swears a hint of a smile twitches to his lips as if something good is about to happen. This isn't the reaction she'd anticipated and she's somewhat bemused, she raises an eyebrow at him before squeezing the trigger. He slumps to the ground almost immediately but still, without a sound. She peers over him, watches the life fade out from his clouded eyes as his last few laboured breaths wheeze out from his chest. After the life is gone, she quickly sweeps her eyes across the body and notices a small tattoo just below his ear - a Quincunx - and she immediately recognises it, not just because it's a common tattoo usually given with makeshift - and unsanitized - tools in Russian prisons, but because she's seen this actual one before, on this neck itself.

She's still thinking about it when the cute waitress places her long-awaited breakfast down in front of her.  


* * *

  
She's early, the only thing she hates more than being too late is being too early. She also hates London this time in the morning, human life is never as fast as a weekday morning in London. Crowds of commuters pack the sidewalks and crossings, all blending together in their mundane grey or black office wear. Men in tailored suits rush past her, mobiles glued to their ear whilst barking orders far too loud at the poor soul on the other end. She's glad she isn't part of this anymore, thankful that her job offers anything but the normality of routine. Sure, she could be killed at any moment with her line of work but at least her soul isn't tethered to the human conveyor belt that is a 9 to 5.

She squeezes through the gaps the rude commuters allow her and heads towards Notes Café, irritation rising with every nudge and shove. And then she sees him, and her. Niko and his new girlfriend, Cheryl. He has his arm draped across her shoulder as they chat casually, easily. She wonders if she's ever seen him this naturally happy and she'll never stop wondering why she feels nothing for it. She's glad he's moved on and has found someone who fits him, someone normal who makes him laugh and allows him to rest easy at night with her life choices. Eve and Niko never did fit and were never going to, like two incorrect pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that you swear match until you push them together and realise the edges aren't quite right - awkward - and if left together would only ruin the bigger picture in the end.

She avoids them, not because it bothers her but because she's already irritated and she wouldn't want him to worry it's because of him or the sight of them together. She dips into a side street and waits until they stroll past. She catches a bit of their conversation as they pass, they're talking about bridge and how well she's doing and how good of a teacher he is. Eve feels like a horrible person at the relief she feels that she isn't the one he has his arm around anymore.

Carolyn is already there, well of course she is. She has her eyes closed again and Eve wonders if this is why she's forever calm, because every moment she's alone she closes her eyes and - she doesn't really know - meditates?

"Good morning, Carolyn."

Her eyes flicker open almost immediately.

"Eve. Good morning. Take a seat. Coffee?"

"Um, yes definitely," The waiter is at their table before Eve can even sit down. "I'll have a flat white, please."

She slips off her mac coat and hangs it from the back of the chair opposite Carolyn before sitting down on it, already hoping the coffee arrives as quick as the waiter did because, God knows, she needs it. She's so tired.

"So, let's just get straight to it. This person of interest we discussed, his name is Kazimir Belov, and he seems to be a very important figure in all of this, from what we know so far at least. He had some major connections in the late eighties and early nineties in Russia, we found some correspondence - letters - which I will have copied and forwarded to you this evening. We believe he acted as some sort of recruiter for The Twelve, in the early days. The most interesting information we found on him, for our case, is his close connection with Oksana's mother, Ursola."

Eve's eyes widen as she wills her brain to take in this new information. A recruiter? Close connections with Ursola? Her coffee arrives just on time and she burns the roof of her mouth by taking an immediate sip from the steaming cup.

"What do we know of their relationship? This guy Kazimir and Ursola, I mean."

A recruiter but he certainly didn't recruit Villanelle. Eve already knows she was plucked from prison by Konstantin for The Twelve, already an ideal candidate with the majority of psychopath credential boxes ticked. It was definitely an easy day at the office when they found her.

"Not a lot so far, just that they had many meetings in Moscow in the early nineties. This is where you come in, Eve, I want you to find out more. Keep it quiet and keep your ears to the ground, we can't have any leaks. It seems he's flown the nest and is now living back in normal society, working as a meat packer in Dublin would you believe. I don't want anything spooking him - or his former employers for that matter - before we get the chance to figure him out."

"Uh, right okay, sure. Where do I start?"

She's already wondering how she is going to tell Villanelle, and damn it that she can't keep anything from her anymore. Villanelle is still working for The Twelve but not entirely out of choice, sure they feed her expensive lifestyle and thirst for violence and murder, but she's grown to hate the chains of their demand. She could be an extremely valuable ally in all of this. Except for the small fact it heavily involves her mother, the woman Eve can't even coerce her into stringing together a sentence about.

"You start with research, I want to know everything before any moves are made. Find out where he came from, his rise to what he became for The Twelve, why he was in contact with Oksana's mother and what it means. Hell, find out his favourite food, where he spends his time now. Everything."

"Can I use Kenny?"

If this is still a sore spot for Carolyn, only a slight tilt of her head shows it.

"Yes, we will have the same team as before," another tilt of the head, "minus dear Bill, of course."

Eve feels as if her heart has been dragged from her chest and out through her stomach, she remembers Bill every day but his name isn't mentioned often anymore so the sound of it now cuts deep. She takes another long sip of her coffee, mostly to distract herself - and Carolyn - from her sudden loss of composure. She sets it back down as steady as possible but it still rattles against the saucer, betraying her.

"Hm, okay. I'll get everyone together and come up with a plan."


End file.
